


A Moveable Feast

by finsbury_park



Series: Second Chances [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Paris (City), Post-Lethal White, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finsbury_park/pseuds/finsbury_park
Summary: Strike and Robin travel to Paris on a case.





	1. Chapter One

Robin rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, golden hair tucked behind her ears, blue-grey eyes reflecting back the breathtaking view. The plane flew above the clouds, an otherworldly landscape bathed in the hazy glow of the morning sun. She let out a long sigh.

Her thoughts drifted to the last flight she had been on. Two years ago, she sat in this same position, looking out the window, letting her mind drift along with the passing clouds. Running away from her train-wreck wedding, that flight had been a tearful escape. She had sat next to Matthew, a man that she was married to but was no longer in love with, a man whom she pledged to trust and support but who had broken her trust and opposed her career choices.

And then there was Strike. She had spent the entire flight thinking about him, returning again and again to their embrace on the stairs. So much had changed over the past two years, but she could still feel his arms around her, the smell of beer and sweat and --

“Robin?”

She pulled her gaze away from the window and turned in her seat. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Strike sat next to her, slightly disheveled in a crumpled button-down, drowsy and soft around the edges from the nap he’d been enjoying until a few moments ago. He gestured to the flight attendant, standing expectantly in front of her drinks cart. “Would you like anything?”

“Oh -- yes. Ginger ale.” Robin hesitated. Matthew would have raised an eyebrow at ordering alcohol before noon, but she knew Strike wouldn’t judge, and would most likely join in. “Sorry, no. White wine, please.”

The attendant pulled a chilled bottle out of the cart, pouring wine into a plastic glass and passing it to Robin, along with a small bag of cocktail nuts. The attendant looked at Strike and raised her eyebrows. “For you, Sir?”

“I don’t suppose you have any decent beer?” His eyes scanned the bottles displayed along the side of the cart, “No, I’ll take a whisky. On the rocks, please.” Whisky and nuts in hand, Strike turned back to Robin. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he looked as he raised his glass with a crooked smile. “To international trips funded by rich assholes.”

“If you really thought he was an asshole we should have turned down the job,” a smiling Robin retorted, bumping her plastic glass against his.

“And say no to an all-expenses trip to Paris? Besides, if we turned down every client we thought was a tosser, we’d be penniless. Or at least, more than we are now.” Strike took a long sip of his whiskey, and began to fumble with the folding table in front of him. Setting down his whisky, he ripped open the bag of cocktail nuts and knocked them back in one go.

Robin rolled her eyes, set her wine down on his tray, and reached below her seat. Pulling out a lunch bag, she passed him a wrapped sandwich and pack of crisps, pulling down her folding table and taking a sandwich out for herself. Strike smiled and tore into the wrapping. Around a half-finished bite of sandwich, he turned and mumbled “I really love travelling with you, you know that, right?”

“The way to your heart is through your stomach, Cormoran.” She paused, blushing, realizing what she had just said. She continued brusquely, “Anyway. No point in us getting drunk before noon. I thought we could get some surveillance in when we arrive, after we sort out the rental car.”

A client they’d nicknamed Van Gogh was waiting to meet them in Paris. Or rather, Robin had nicknamed him; a fiery red beard and air of eccentricity had made her pull up a google image search of Van Gogh’s self portrait to make her argument with Strike. He’d had a few a slightly less complimentary nicknames lined up. The client had been proving to be quite a difficult person, (a right tosser, in Strike’s words), but was paying well, along with footing the bill for travel, accommodation and daily expenses, so the job had been near impossible to turn down.

They ate and drank in silence, Robin’s mind drifting back to her earlier train of thought. The last flight, sitting with Matthew in a cold, furious silence. This flight, a stark contrast; Cormoran and Robin sat in silence, but it was comfortable and calm.

Robin looked at her partner out of the corner of her eye. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his large hands grasped the sandwich like it was his last meal, his attention focused and unmoveable. She smiled to herself. Walking along the beach on her honeymoon, she hadn’t been sure about her feelings regarding Strike. Was she confusing love with friendship and gratitude? The respect she felt for him, was it forged over shared occupation, admiration and fondness and nothing more? Matthew was the only man she’d every been with, and she had felt inexperienced, plain and boring when she put herself in a line-up with the other women in Strike’s life.

Yet two years had passed, and so many things had changed. Her divorce from Matthew had brought her freedom, independence and a new-found confidence. The cloud of her relationship with him no longer filled her with feelings of guilt and betrayal, especially surrounding her work partner. She and Strike were back to their old camaraderie, before he fired her, before the marriage. Yet it was even more, like putting on a comfortable sweater. It felt like they’d never stopped being close friends, like they’d known each other forever.

Spending time with Strike outside of work had become normal, commonplace; drinks with Nick and Ilsa every weekend, a trip to the Imperial War Museum with Jack, his nephew, even a theatre date with Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted. _Was it a date?_ His hand had lingered on her lower back, steering her through a crowd at intermission. The colour rose in her cheeks as she remembered the warm pressure of his hand, the tingling that had spread throughout her body. As their friendship grew, the hard lines between their professional and personal lives became more blurred.

There were moments she thought she saw something in Strike, a sign that she was more than a friend to him. A lingered glance, a gentle touch on the arm, a thoughtfulness in his small, everyday gestures.

She turned to look at Strike again; he had gone back to sleep. He looked younger, his usually knit brows smooth, his boxers profile less surly in sleep. She had a sudden urge to reach out and run her hands through his tight curls, to smooth out the few remaining lines on his forehead. Slowly, over the past year, Robin had finally begun to admit to herself the breadth of her feelings for her partner; she was at last coming around to the idea that she was hopelessly and completely in love with him. The only problem was that he was also her best friend and her work partner. She let out another long sigh, and turned back to the window, resting her forehead on the glass. She was fucked.


	2. Chapter Two

Strike turned on the shower to warm up, and began to undress. He folded his clothes neatly, and balanced on the edge of the toilet seat to remove his prosthesis. Hopping into the shower, he let the scalding water wash over him, the tensions and grime of travelling disappearing down the drain. Not that travelling with Robin was stressful. It was anything but; she packed snacks, she printed out itineraries, she was easy to spend time with, even on a cramped plane.

A flash of memory came back to him, uninvited: travelling with Charlotte to Paris for her twentieth birthday. He was hungover, overstimulated and walking on eggshells after a huge fight the previous night, and the flight had been long and turbulent. Charlotte had made him feel small, inadequate, hopelessly provincial. He couldn’t imagine Robin ever making him feel like that.

Strike stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel around his waist, reattached his prosthesis, and walked out to the balcony, pausing at the bed to grab cigarettes and a lighter out of his open bag. He left wet footprints on the expensive, deep carpet.

He smoked silently, staring out at the rooftops of Paris. The sun was low in the sky, the air smelled of summer blossoms and sugar, drifting up from the patisserie below. Charlotte’s spectre drifted in his brain, uninvited. _What the fuck was wrong with him?_ He was in this beautiful city, doing the job he loved with a lovely woman - not to mention kind, beautiful, intelligent - (he could go on). And yet the memory of Charlotte followed him everywhere. He dragged a hand through his dense, damp curls and sighed. As he turned to dress, he resolved to forget about Charlotte for the night, and make some new Parisian memories with Robin.

\-----------------

Robin turned on the shower to warm up, and began to undress. She dropped her clothes in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the shower. Running her hands through her wet hair, she thought about the last time she’d been in Paris. She’d been fifteen, it was a two-week school exchange, and she’d shared a dorm room with two classmates. After daily lessons, their chaperones would take them on walks around different neighbourhoods, and she’d fallen in love with the architecture and art galleries, the outdoor markets and the cafes. It had been one of the best experiences of her teenage years, and most importantly it had been Matthew-free. That hadn’t happened until the following year.

To realize almost every memory from the past decade had been tainted by a person she didn’t actively want to think about had been staggering. It came up often at her therapy sessions. She didn’t want to erase him from her memory, but she was realizing how much she loved her independence, and how much she had lost it, letting it slowly be chipped away by another person’s expectations and desires. 

Robin got out of the shower, wrapping herself in a plush towel, using a second to wrap her hair. Enjoying the feeling of the expensive carpet under her bare feet, she walked to the bed and flopped down on her back, staring at the fancy, tin-tiled ceiling of the rental. She was in Paris, in a beautiful rental she’d never be able to afford, and she was working with her best friend. She resolved to make some new memories, with Strike. And perhaps to figure out how to tell him she wanted to blow up their friendship and risk their working relationship for - what? Dating? She hadn’t been on a first date since sixth form. Sex? She'd only ever slept with Matt.

It was equal parts embarrassing and thrilling, admitting to herself that she was attracted to someone like Strike, with his bear-like appearance and unconventional looks. He was as far as you could get from what Robin had always thought was her type; clean cut, conventional, well - Matthew. She felt like a teenager, except she couldn't ever remember feeling quite like this. Robin rolled her eyes at herself, pushed herself off the soft duvet, and got dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * (I edited this chapter - I was rereading The Silkworm and I realized Strike had been on a plane before, with Dave Polworth! They went to Australia when he was 18. Whoops.)


	3. Chapter Three

The sun was slowly setting, as Robin and Strike walked along the sidewalk, searching for a spot for dinner. Locals ambled the streets, chatting, shopping, meeting friends for food. The air was warm, the late summer evening seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Strike glanced over at Robin. Her gold hair was tousled, just barely dry from the shower. She gazed around at the Parisian neighbourhood, a childish look of excitement on her face that Strike found very endearing. They pushed past a group of suited businessman, smoking in a clump outside a cafe. Strike watched as their eyes followed Robin, and his own eyes skipped to her, taking in what their lingering gazes were looking at; long, shapely and pale legs, a soft summery dress, freckled shoulders and that red-gold hair. Nick’s voice popped into his head, a conversation they’d had over a pint a few weeks prior. “What are you waiting for, mate? She’s not going stay single forever.” 

“Strike - ” He realized he had been staring at her. Robin had stopped outside a small cafe. “What about this one? Looks like they have a table free, by the window, there.” She pointed inside. Strike nodded and followed her inside. The cafe was dark and inviting, filled with small tables in groups of two and four, all full of customers. Old paintings filled the walls, and candles flickered on every table. 

“Table pour deux?” Robin held up two fingers, looking at the host. He ushered them over the window table, leaving them with menus. “Merci,” Robin said brightly, as he walked away.

Strike pulled out her chair, giving her an inquiring look. “You speak French?”

Robin laughed as she sat down. “Barely. I did a school trip to Paris in secondary, I was pretty obsessed with French culture for a while. I taught myself with some of those language tapes, then took electives in Uni. My accent’s horrible though. Still, I think it’s nice to attempt to learn a bit of someone’s language when you travel somewhere. Respect for their culture and everything. Even if you’re butchering it with your northern accent.” She grinned sheepishly at him.

“Don’t speak badly of your accent,” he said with mock seriousness, thinking of the adorable way her Yorkshire vowels shone through when she was mad or flustered.

She smiled at him, then looked down at the menu. “What are you going to order?”

“Everything. I’m starving.”

“Of course you are. Want to split a bottle of wine? Don’t think they’ll have Doom Bar on draft.”

Strike looked at her. This was dangerous. They were in a dim restaurant. In Paris. Eating dinner together. Drinking wine. He swallowed. “Sure. A burgundy?”

Robin nodded. “Since Van Gogh is footing the bill, I’m going to have the duck. You? Want to split a salad to start?”

“I’m getting the steak frites. And I guess I could attempt to eat some veg.”

“Never met a potato you didn’t like,” Robin muttered under her breath, as the waiter returned to their table. She ordered in French, and the waiter’s mouth turned up at the edge, suppressing an amused smile. Nevertheless, Strike was impressed, and Robin rolled her eyes when she finished, catching Strike looking at her fondly. She took a deep breath. “I have a proposition for you,” she said, blue-grey eyes looking brightly at his. 

His heart skipped a beat as he thought about what might follow that line. He tried to curb his imagination, which was already running wild. “What?”

“Let’s not talk about work. Just for one night. This almost feels like a vacation. With you. It’s lovely, and --” she paused. “We’re meeting with Van Gogh in the morning, and I really don’t think there’s anything left to sort out until we get more information from him.” Strike looked at her, a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. Robin continued. “Anyway, I haven’t been on a vacation since, well, my honeymoon, at that wasn’t exactly an enjoyable trip. And I’ve wanted to come back to Paris since forever, and I’m so happy to be here.” _With you_ , she added to herself.

Strike smiled. “Okay. No shop talk. Tell me more about that book you were reading on the plane.” 

\---------

Halfway through their second bottle of wine, dinner plates cleared, Strike pushed back his chair, making more room for his very full stomach. They’d meandered through so many subjects; favourite books, childhood ambitions, opinions about Nick and Ilsa’s kittens-now-cats (Strike thought they were terrors, Robin was entirely won over by their spunky personalities and adorable antics), pros and cons of a variety of potato-based dishes (to Strike there were no cons), and had circled back to Paris.

“Well, I’ve only ever been once,” continued Robin, “that time in school. I always suggested Paris when we talked about travel, but Matthew was never into the idea. I got the sense that he thought it was too… French? He didn’t really like French culture. Which is ridiculous. I don’t really know was his problem was. He always wanted to go somewhere hot. And boring.” Robin ran a finger around the edge of her wine glass, looking thoughtful. “What about you?”

“A few times, mostly with SIB related-stuff, extended layovers, that kind of thing.” He paused. “First time I was twenty. With Charlotte.”

Robin stayed silent, taking a sip of wine, watching his face.

Strike took a deep breath, the memory coming back to him, unwelcome. “It was only my second time leaving England, actually. Seems crazy now, but my mum never had enough money for holidays, and Joan and Ted didn’t really travel much, especially not with two kids in tow.” He paused, frowning into his wine. “Anyway, it was pretty mind-blowing. Charlotte was so comfortable with wealth and international travel, and I felt like this poor bumpkin, following her around and trying to fit in. Not a great memory. Paris was great, but Charlotte -- .” He went silent again.

Robin took a long sip of wine. Quietly, she urged him on. “You can talk to me about her. You know that, right? It’s a big part of your past, you can’t just erase it, even if they aren’t great memories.”

Strike could feel the wine relaxing his tongue, making his admit things he normally kept locked away. “I know. A lot of the time I’d rather not think about it at all. I wasted sixteen years of my life with her. Not that it was all bad. But the good memories don’t really make up for all the shit she put me through. I get that now. I wanted to fix her, but that’s not how love works.”

Robin stared at him. It was the most she’d ever heard him talk about his feelings, talk about Charlotte for that matter, with the exception of that time in the pub after her engagement to Jago. But copious amounts of Doom Bar had been involved. He didn’t seem that drunk now. Just… slightly melancholy and talkative. In an alarmingly un-Strike way. 

“Well.” Robin searched for the right words. “You can’t undo what’s done, you just have to focus on the present, and whatever lessons you can learn from your fucked-up past, right? I sound like my therapist. Actually, I’m pretty sure she’s said those exact lines to me. Without the swearing.” She smiled at him, hoping she’d said the right thing.

Strike looked straight into Robin’s eyes, his steady gaze was both sad and hopeful at the same time. “Difficile est longum subito deponere amoren, difficile est, uerum hoc qua lubet efficias.”

A smiled played around Robin’s lips. “Well, now it’s my turn to feel like a country bumpkin. I’m guessing it’s Catulllus, but you’re going to have to translate it for me. Not all of us went to Oxford.”

Strike looked steadily back at Robin, not needing the well-worn copy of his favourite book to remember the passage that had been on his mind of late. “It is hard to abruptly shrug off a long-established love: hard, but this, somehow, you must do.”

Silence hung in the air. Strike held Robin’s gaze, unspoken feelings hovering around the table. Suddenly, the waiter appeared. He cleared his throat, realizing too late that he was interrupting something intimate. “Anything else for you tonight?”

Robin broke away from Strike’s gaze, composing herself. “Just the bill, thanks.”


	4. Chapter Four

****The walk back from the restaurant was quiet. Strike was used to the women in his life filling silences with inane conversation, whether it was Lucy, Ilsa, or any of the string of women after (or in between) Charlotte. He knew they meant well, but it was exhausting, having to talk all the time, fill every gap with noise. Robin, on the other hand, had no problem with silence.

The air was warm, the street deserted, and Strike reminded himself it was a weeknight. Travelling always threw off his sense of time. A lone cab drove past them as they crossed the street to their rental. Strike turned to look at Robin, and caught her looking at him. She smiled. He was taken aback by how beautiful she was; her red-gold hair glinted in the streetlight, her eyes looking at him fondly, her lips turned up in a smile, soft and delicious-looking. He turned away and set his gaze resolutely to the front; he’d had too much wine.

Strike buzzed them in with the apartment code, and lead the way up the ancient spiral stairs. Their footsteps rang off the chipped tiles of the hall. Outside Robin’s suite, they both stopped and she turned to look at him again.

“Thank you, Cormoran. That was a really lovely evening.” Robin stepped forward, and for a moment, Strike thought she was going to kiss him on the mouth. His heart skipped a beat, he felt his pulse quicken, but she leant to the side and laid a soft kiss on his cheek. She turned around, let herself in her room, and closed the door, quietly. 

Strike let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and walked to the next door in the hallway, letting himself into his suite. Despite the late hour and the multiple glasses of wine, he was wide awake, thoughts bouncing around his head. He took off his suit, stripping down to his boxers, and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthesis. Grabbing his smokes, he awkwardly hopped the short distance to the balcony, easing himself down onto a deck chair, and putting his remaining leg up on the other chair. Leaning back, he lit a cigarette and let his mind wander.

He knew it was dangerous, but he was feeling wistful and slightly drunk, so he mentally took out each of the previous moments of closeness with Robin, examining them, and putting them safely back in that closed-off part of his brain. The kiss on the hand when they’d solved their second case; her skin had been so soft, her eyes bright and surprised. When she’d gotten pissed at the Tottenham and he’d walked her to a hotel, arm around her waist, head just fitting under his chin; she smelled like her signature perfume that filled the office, her body warm and curvy against his side. The embrace at her wedding, roses in her hair, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The accidental kiss in the parking lot at the hospital, awkward but sweet, the smell of asphalt and grass burned in his mind.

He added this new memory, a date that wasn't a date, a night of conversation ending with a chaste kiss goodnight.

Strike ground out his cigarette on the metal patio table and lit up another one. These moments were so small, so innocent, yet they filled him with endorphins, with more pleasure than he’d gotten out of a relationship since -- since Charlotte. He pushed that thought out of his brain. He didn't want to think about her, compare her with Robin. They were two very different women, from two very different parts of his life.

The city hummed, despite the late hour. Strike readjusted himself in the chair and lit up a third cigarette, promising it would be the last of the night. His untethered brain drifted back to Robin, her figure in the summer dress she’d worn tonight. How long had it been since he slept with someone? A whole year. There hadn't been anyone since Lorelei. After that predictable outcome, he hadn't felt the need to protect himself with any more distractions. Robin was single, and he was free to… what? Ask her out? Sleep with her? He didn't know how to start something, how to blow apart this friendship with a grenade of emotions. What if she said no? What if she didn't feel the same way, and he ruined everything? What if she did feel the same way, and he fucked everything up anyway?

He enjoyed his life as it was now. His business was successful, he had the best work relationship he’d ever had, he saw his friends on the weekend, enjoyed beer and matches at the pub. Things were simple, he was independent. And yet. He was lonely. And he couldn’t get Robin out of his head.

He had let her get under his skin. He had found her attractive from the start; he’d have to be blind not to, but the ring had been a convenient barrier. But as he got to know Robin, as they became friends (unwillingly became each other’s best friends, if really wanted to be truthful), he’d become more and more attracted to her, to a point where he had to carefully keep his feelings under wrap to function in day to day life. It was unusual. He’d never had a relationship like this, one where he had the opportunity to slowly get to know a woman before landing in bed. Not that there was any risk of that happening with Robin, because he was too much of an scared idiot to make the next move. He was out of his comfort zone. As a child, moving around a lot, he’d learned to be adaptable, make friends quickly, fit in with new groups of people. As an adult, he’d realised these skills were equally applicable to dating, and he’d never had a hard time with women, despite the consternation of his friends (“ _I don’t understand it, Bunsen - for a fat fuck with one leg, you certainly get a lot of action,”_ was how Shanker put it _)_.

But Robin was different. She threw him off his game. His ground out his last cigarette, and thought desperately about how much he wanted another as he hopped to bed.


	5. Chapter Five

The day had been long and productive. Robin and Strike had met with Van Gogh over coffee and croissants at a cafe next to his gallery. The art dealer suspected his former employee of stealing from him; the police had been involved, but no suspect had been found. Now there were rumours of the stolen pieces being back on the market, but their client had lost faith in _La PP_ and had decided to mount his own investigation.

Robin and Strike started off by running surveillance on a few possible suspects related to the case, then met with a security guard, and interviewed a shop owner beside the gallery. Finally, after a visit to another gallery, posing as potential clients, they had found themselves back in the 18th arrondissement, close to their rental suites.

Robin had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was the perfect combination of satisfying work that she loved and spending time with one of her favourite people. She hadn’t felt this happy and relaxed for a long time; the divorce from Matthew had been long and drawn out, and it was exhilarating being out of London, in a city free of memories of her former marriage. 

As they exited the Metro station, Robin turned to look at the ironwork around the stairway. Art Nouveau was one of her favourite parts of the Parisian landscape. The fonts and scrollwork seemed to echo a mysterious, romantic past. She turned to Strike. 

“Cormoran - I know we were just going to head back to the rental, but…”

“What?” He was more than willing to agree to anything that might extend this enjoyable day with Robin. 

“Would it be so bad if we got in a little sight-seeing while we’re here? Sacre-Coeur is just around the corner, and it was one of my favourite places last time I was here.” Strike turned to glance at Robin. She looked so perfect, so relaxed here, standing on a Parisian sidewalk, late evening sun glinting in her hair. She was more carefree and happy than he had seen her in long time. Although they hadn’t spoken of it much, he sensed the divorce had been draining. Ilsa had filled him in on a few of the details, and no surprise, it sounded like Matthew had made everything as difficult as possible. 

“Yeah, of course,” he replied. “But only if it involves getting dinner. I’m starving.” He realised he wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to. “It’s a church, right?” 

“Yeah, we don’t have to go up it or anything, it’s probably closed. We can just find a spot to eat outside. And how can you possibly be hungry? We’ve been running surveillance in cafes all day, I’ve had at least a year’s worth of pastry.”

“Yeah, that apple one at the last place was … exquisite.” He had a dreamy look on his face.

“Chausson aux pomme. That’s what they’re called, it actually translates to 'apple slipper.' ” She smiled at him. 

Strike grinned back. “Slipper? Right, I’m just going to leave the french to you.” 

They found a Lebanese take-away, and while Robin waited for their order, Strike popped into the wine shop next door, and grabbed a few cans of beer and a small bottle of chilled white from the small fridge next to the cashier. When he exited the store, Robin was standing outside, waiting for him, large paper bag in hand. They headed off down the street.

Rounding the corner, the Basilica came into view. Raised on the highest hill in Paris, it was a beacon of Byzantine architecture, a gathering spot for tourists and locals alike. People milled about on the stairs and the grass, eating and drinking together, taking photos and enjoying the late summer evening.

Heading to an empty spot on the grass, Robin turned to Strike, but she hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay to sit on the ground? We can look for a bench.”

“No, no, it’s fine, we’ve got to do the picnic thing right. You might just have help me up when we’re done.” He took off his suit jacket and laid it on the ground, gesturing. “After you.”

Robin settled herself on his jacket, carefully looking away while he lowered himself down to the ground, stretching out his legs in front of him. He let out a contented sigh. “Looks like I’m stuck here for good. At least the view is nice.”

The basilica loomed up behind them, white and statuesque, glowing in the sunset. In front of them, Paris stretched out, an endless carpet of grey and white, a river running through it like a ribbon, famous monuments dotted about.

Robin tore open the wrapper on her falafel, then looked over at Strike with a huge grin on her face. “I just love Paris.”

Strike loved how much Robin loved Paris. He grinned back at her. They quietly enjoyed their meal, Strike quickly eating his shawarma, and finishing off two cans of beer. Robin rummaged in the paper bag and pulled out two baklava. “Walnut or almond? I know we’ve had so many desserts today, but they looked so good I couldn’t pass them up.” 

They munched on their desserts, hands sticky from the honey, washing them down with more beer and wine. Robin pulled out her notes, and they began tossing back and forth theories about the case. As the sun set behind them, they slowly slipped away from work discussions into personal territory.

As Strike opened his last beer, Robin gathered up the wrappers and beer caps from the grass, collecting them in the paper bag. She paused, a question on her tongue, unsure of how far to push. _Fuck it_ , she thought, _if I keep waiting I might just be waiting forever._ “Are you seeing anyone right now?” She tried to keep her voice light, with what she hoped was a casual tone. She was pretty sure she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him.

“No… nobody. Not since Lorelei.” He wasn’t sure why he added that part. “You?”

“No. Vanessa keeps trying to set me up with this guy from forensics, but I met him at her Christmas party last year and he’s really not my type.” Robin took another sip of wine, almost done the tiny bottle.

“So, what is your type?” Strike looked at her carefully, not sure if he should have asked.

“Well - I think I always thought it was Matthew, but clearly I was wrong about that.” She sighed. “I mean, he was my type when I was sixteen and didn’t know any better, but now I’m not so sure.” She paused, looking out over the breathtaking view. “We’re sold this idea that life only matters if you find your other half. I guess I'm realising that I’m okay by myself, that I can be independent and happy without a husband or a boyfriend.” She paused again, looking at him. “Not that I don’t want to find someone. I think … life is easier and more enjoyable with a partner.” She looked down at her wine bottle, blushing a little. She’d meant to say husband, but the word _partner_ had just slipped out and now it sounded like she was talking about Cormoran. _Which I am_ , she thought to herself. 

Strike stared at her, thinking about how his life was both easier _and_ more enjoyable with Robin around. 

Robin looked back over the view, streetlights slowly coming on as the sun slipped below the horizon. “Maybe... we have this idea of the perfect person for us, and then someone comes along and blows that all apart. The exact opposite of what you’re looking for turns out the be the person for you.” She looked at him and smiled. “Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s Paris, it’s making me do it.”

Strike found himself feeling both elated and nervous at the same time. He felt tongue-tied and unsure of what to say next. He was so fearless around most women, but something about Robin made him feel like he was fourteen, his tongue clumsy and his brain slow. He settled for finishing off his beer and giving Robin a hopeful smile. She was looking at him, curiously. “What about you?”

“What?” Strike was confused. Too much beer, too much Robin, too much Paris.

“What’s your type?” she replied, stubbornly. “I told you, so you owe me an answer. If we’re finally talking about our personal lives to each other,” she added with a wicked grin.

“I’m not sure…” He knit is eyebrows, thinking about all the women over the last two decades. Most of them just blurred together into drunken evenings of enjoyable sex. Charlotte stood out, of course, but was that his type? A stunningly beautiful, damaged woman who happened to be a pathological liar? What did that say about him? 

Robin looked at him and garnered a try. “Well, if I had to guess - extremely beautiful, talented, professional, somewhat damaged… right?”

 _You’re all those things Robin_ , he thought to himself. _You’re stunningly beautiful, you find out information I can’t, you excel at your job. Shit things have happened to you, but they’ve made you stronger. You’re my type._ But he didn’t say that. 

Instead, he wanted to make one thing clear. “Charlotte and I are done,” he said quietly, staring at his hands. “When I left her, that day you started temping, that was for good. I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes, repeating myself. If… if I find someone new, I want to do things differently. Find someone who shares my interests. Goals. Someone who’s easy to be with. Someone who isn’t a pathological liar,” he added with a grin. 

Robin stared at him, a blossom of hope spreading in her chest. A small smile played around her lips.

Strike continued to stare at his hands, then let out a sigh. He seemed to pull himself together. “Well. Shall we head back?”


	6. Chapter Six

“Two jambon-beurre, please.” The cashier reached for two parchment-wrapped sandwiches, placing them in a paper bag. A row of tempting apple pastries caught Robin’s eye. “And two of those,” she said, pointing to the chausson aux pomme. She paid, and exited the bustling store. Paper bag in hand, she turned left and strolled along the avenue back to the apartment. At her own suggestion, she’d popped out to grab lunch for herself and Strike, who was back at the rental, going over notes and doing research. She paused at the corner, and turned away from the rental, towards the river. Now that she was out in the sun, she decided to take a quick detour by the Seine on her way back with lunch.

Robin walked along the concrete embankment of the river, enjoying the feel of the sun on her bare arms, drinking in the scenery and mulling over the events of the previous night. She and Strike had walked back to the apartment after their impromptu picnic. She loved walking close to him; his height, his familiar smell, the easy banter. He’d kissed her goodnight. Nothing fancy, just a peck on the cheek. She liked to think he’d lingered just a little too long. Robin had smelled wine, cigarettes, and a musky, spicy smell, and she wanted to reach out and pull him back in, but her arms had been frozen. Then the moment had passed. She had turned and let herself into her suite, hands itching for his curly hair, his scratchy face. 

She’d lain in bed, feeling an eerie similarity to the last time they’d shared nearby hotel rooms, at the Travelodge, two - or was it three? - years ago. She’d been upset by Matthew’s infidelities, and equally confused by her feelings for her boss. Daring herself to think of him in a romantic, physical way, a quick scene was drawn up by her imagination; Strike inviting himself into her room on a slim pretence, so ridiculous and embarrassing that she had buried her head in the pillow, cheeks burning at the thought. Now it didn’t seem so far-fetched. They were both single, and they enjoyed each other’s company. She knew she wasn’t as glamorous or as beautiful as some of his exes, but she didn’t think she was imagining the looks she saw him giving her, when he didn’t think she was looking.

The river flowed lazily past Robin. She passed an outdoor market with fruits and vegetables, cured meats and bread. Robin’s eyes passed over the scene, without really looking, still lost in thought. A couple passed in front of her, holding hands. Really, what had the past two nights been, but almost-dates? They certainly felt like dates to her; enjoyable conversation, wine, food, slow walks home and (albeit chaste) kisses goodnight. Better than any date she’d been on for years. And the conversation - not only were they finally beginning to talk about their personal lives, but also talking about the elephants in the room, the ghosts of their respective past relationships. They were dancing around their exes, talking about a possible relationship by flirting at the edges of conversation. Robin felt relief, being able to talk about Matthew and Charlotte. Not in an enjoyable way, but in a way she imagined people with decades of unknown, unshared pasts might talk about these things. She was one of those people now. A divorcee. She sighed, and turned away from the river, back to the apartment. 

Robin let herself in the front door, punching in a code on the keypad, and headed up the ancient stairway. Strike continued to loom large in her mind; how attractive he’d been quoting Latin, chatting about his childhood. The breadth of unknown about Strike enraptured her, like an iceberg, the exposed part above the water only a fraction of his knowledge and experience. She chastised herself for comparing him to Matthew again, but she couldn’t help it. She’d known everything about Matt, known him as a teenager, been in his childhood bedroom, watched him grow into a man. He was straight-forward, motivations of money and status easy to understand (if unattractive to Robin), and his hobbies and interests were average and predictable. Strike was… very different.

Robin paused, foot on the last step of the staircase. What was that about Strike not dating anyone since Lorelei? That was a whole year ago. Right around the time she had left Matt. Should she be reading into that? He certainly didn’t have any trouble with women. Did she dare think that maybe he was waiting for her? If that was true, why hadn’t he said anything yet? Was she going to have to take matters into her own hands, make the first move?

She arrived at Strike’s door, and raised a hand to knock. She paused, fist in midair. She rolled back her shoulders, set her chin, and pushed aside the jumble of thoughts running through her head. It was time to work, be professional. She’d figure this out later. She let herself in the apartment and placed the bag of sandwiches and pastries on the small table.

“Thanks, I’m starving.” Strike looked up at Robin, closing the laptop and shifting it aside to make room for lunch. As he tore into the sandwich, he filled her in on the notes he’d been typing up.

Robin sat back and ate, listening to the updates. When he was finished, they set about sorting out the rest of their day. “So, you’re going to check out that last gallery this afternoon, right?”

“Mm, yeah,” replied Strike, “and you’re running surveillance outside that apartment on 12th. Unless you want to trade.”

Robin shook her head. “You only want to trade because of the pastries. Nope.”

“Okay, fine,” said Strike, through a mouthful of ham and cheese. He swallowed. “Then I’ll meet you back here and we’ll get ready for the gala. We’ll get a taxi around 7, does that sound okay?”

“Sounds good.” Robin paused. “What are you wearing tonight?”

“Why?” Strike looked at her sharply.

“Well, I know we’re not playing it as a couple, but I just thought we’d be together most of the night, so it won’t hurt if people assume we’re together. And it’ll give me a cover story if I need to get out of any awkward conversations.”

“Oh.” Strike paused. “That’s a good idea. I’ve brought my navy suit, and a tie. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” she said brightly.

He stared at her for a moment. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh, that green dress. I never go to events fancy enough for it, so I thought, why not?” She turned away from him to tidy up their lunch, but not before catching the look on his face. She smiled to herself.


	7. Chapter 7

Strike had never understood the appeal of large, expensive parties. Whether it was a gala, a wedding or any number of other celebrations he’d been dragged to because of work, or friends, or Charlotte, he never stopped wishing he was at the pub or at home, cold beer in hand, in the company of himself (or a small select group of people whose company he actually enjoyed). Perhaps it was the endless supply of overly sweet champagne, or the diminutive size of the appetizers, or the overdressed, annoyingly smug upper-class party goers. Whatever it was, he detested it all. 

However, he would happily attend one of these events every week for the rest of his life if it meant having Robin on his arm, dressed like she was. She looked, if possible, even better than he had remembered, the two other times he had seen her in the Vashti dress. When she’d met him in the hallway to head out for the evening, he’d had to remind himself not to gape, to keep his gaze averted so he wouldn’t stare. She’d gained back the weight she’d lost for the wedding, and her curves were filling out the dress in a very distracting way. 

When she’d turned around from locking the door to her suite, she’d looked up at him and asked coyly, “How do I look?” 

“Good,” had been his gruff reply, with his eyes averted. Any more and he’d have given himself away. The hallway seemed to shrink, and he felt very hot and uncomfortable, all of a sudden. 

In the cab, driving through the busy Parisian evening traffic, Robin had watched out of the corner of her eye while Strike fixed his cuffs, pulling on the shirtsleeves, buttoning and unbuttoning them, nervously looking out the window. He seemed uncomfortable and distracted. She found herself appreciating the Italian suit; his broad shoulders filled it out perfectly, and he looked much more conventional and polished than he usually did. As they left the taxi, he offered her his arm, and she took it. Just before they entered the gallery, Strike caught a glimpse of their reflection in a glass window. Robin, taller than usual in her heels, was looking statuesque in the designer dress; he was pleased to see that he looked half-decent next to her, a plausible date. If he was honest with himself, he knew he would enjoy the looks he got from other men, having this beautiful woman on his arm. For one night it didn’t matter that he only had one leg and lived the world’s smallest flat. 

\-----------

They had spent the evening mingling with guests, eavesdropping and flirting their way through the crowd, sometimes together, sometimes apart. A live band played jazz standards, and party goers wandered around, gazing at modern art and drinking copious amounts of champagne. At one point, Robin had managed to sneak into the back offices of the gallery while Strike had chatted up a security guard, who was conveniently ex-army, also stationed in Afghanistan. She had found some very useful documents, photographed them all, and managed to get out before the guard was much the wiser. 

As the party was winding down, Strike found himself alone at the bar, pint of inferior beer in hand. He scanned the room for a signature flash of green; he’d last seen Robin deep in conversation with a younger man in a very expensive looking suit, who looked overly excited by Robin’s attentions, and had the flushed look of someone thoroughly enjoying the open bar. That had been at least twenty minutes ago. He had tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy he’d felt, watching the man’s attentions. As he took a long sip of beer, Strike’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Robin.

_ Can you get me out of this conversation? I’ve got some good info out of him, but he’s getting handsy. We’re by the stage.  _

Abandoning his beer, Strike walked purposefully over the stage, finally seeing the flash of green he’d been looking for. The drunk man had a firm grip on Robin’s arm, and she had a look of thinly veiled disgust on her face. 

“Excuse me.” Strike stepped between the two of them. The man quickly dropped Robin’s arm and looked Strike up and down, taking in his size and stature. Strike turned and cocked an eyebrow at Robin. “Would you like to dance?”

Robin offered her arm, and Strike took it, leading her back into the crowd. Once they were out of earshot, he bent down slightly, leaning into her ear. “You okay?” he asked gruffly. 

Robin turned to face him. “I’m fine. Thanks. I could’ve handled it by myself, but I didn’t want to make scene. He had some great gossip though, I’ll fill you in later.” 

“Okay. As long as you’re fine.” He had a concerned look on his face. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“What about my dance?” 

“What?”

“You asked me to dance.” 

“I was just trying to get you away from that twat.”

“I know that. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to take you up on the offer.”

“I don’t dance.” 

“Well, just hold my waist and rock back and forth.”

Strike stared at her blankly. She was about to give up, agree to leave, when he sighed, and stuck out a hand, palm up. 

Robin held back a grin, raised her eyebrows at him, and gave him her hand. He lead her out to the dance floor, as the band began playing a slow tune.

“It's like they knew you were coming,” said Robin, grinning, as she turned to face him. He gingerly placed his hands on her waist. The jersey fabric of her dress was soft under his rough hands, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. 

Robin brought her hands up to his shoulders, linking them behind his neck. She smiled at him, gently rocking back and forth to the music. “This was my parents’ wedding song -  _ At Last _ \- my dad jokes about it, says it took him so long to convince my mum to go out with him, this was the only possible choice. Every time it comes on the radio, they stop and dance.” She paused. “Some people do spend their whole lives together.” 

Strike looked at her in her green dress, no longer swaying to the music, looking off behind his shoulder, eyes unfocused and thoughtful. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms, bring a smile to her face. Buoyed by beer and the confidence brought by having this gorgeous woman on his arm for the night, he took a chance. 

“Dance with me,” he said playfully. He took one of her hands from behind his neck, spinning her around in a circle, and pulling her in to him. One hand landed on her lower back, pulling her closer, the other held her hand, bringing it to his chest. 

Robin looked at her hand, ringless, splayed on his lapel, then slowly up at him, eyes sparkling. “I thought you said you don't dance.” 

“Only for you.” 

She smiled up at him, then turned her face to the side, ducking her head and resting her check on his chest. They rocked back and forth, slowly in one spot, until the song finished, and Robin broke away, looking at Strike hesitantly. 

He looked back at her, awkwardly. “Let's go find a taxi?” 

She nodded, following him out of the gallery. They waited in silence on the city street, Robin shivering in the night breeze. Strike shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. She smiled at him. “Thanks.” 

A taxi pulled up, and Strike opened the door. Robin ducked her head and climbed in. She gave the driver their address as Strike climbed in and slammed the door. The taxi sped off into the dark Paris evening, passing ancient buildings, streets thrumming with life. The silence of the cab was sudden, after the noise of the evening, and Strike could hear every rustle of Robin’s dress as she settled herself in the seat next to him. Suddenly, he felt her shift over closer to him, her thigh coming to rest along his own, her head onto his shoulder. He paused, frozen for a moment, and then watched his hand, of its own accord, shift to rest gently on her leg. Robin rested her hand on top of his. Her touch was soft and delicate. Strike turned his head gently to look out the window, and as he watched the city slip by, he savoured the feeling of her, tucked against him, wondering if this was really possible, and if it could really be this easy and this perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers to you if you catch the Notting Hill reference.


	8. Chapter Eight

The taxi slowed, pulling up in front of their rental. Robin pulled herself away from Strike’s warmth, scooting back to her side of the seat. She looked over, hesitantly, at Strike, who was leaning forward and paying the cabbie. Was she being obvious enough? Had he been flirting with her tonight, or just being courteous and friendly? She’d told herself earlier she would go for it, drink enough champagne to give her some Dutch courage, and if nothing had happened by the end of the evening, she’d kiss him goodnight. A real kiss, not the chaste, friendly goodbye of the last few nights. After that, she wasn’t quite sure. Should she invite him into her room? Robin had no idea what she was doing, she hadn’t dated since she was seventeen, and even then she just went along with whatever was expected of her. Taking initiative in this part of her life was … new. And scary. But she’d come this far, and she wasn’t going to chicken out now. She might be nervous, inexperienced and out of her comfort zone, but she wasn’t a quitter.

Strike opened the taxi door for Robin, and she stepped out into the evening air. She led the way into the apartment, punching in the security code and heading up the ancient stairs. Her heels clicked loudly, echoing in the stairwell, her footsteps sounding much more confident than she felt. Strike followed behind her, trying to look anywhere but in front of him, stubbornly not thinking about Robin’s figure, which was right in front of his face, and definitely not thinking about what it would look like divested of the green fabric.

Robin came to a stop outside her door, turning slowly to face Strike. She had a look on her face, one that Strike was familiar with; a stubborn, blazing look she got when she was determined to do something, whether he agreed with it or not. He needed to shut this down, get out before things went too far.

“Goodnight, Robin.” He paused, looking into her blue-grey eyes. “I had a really lovely time tonight.” He leaned in, landing a soft kiss on her cheek. He could smell her perfume, the one that filled the office, the one that triggered a reaction in him that he was trying desperately to ignore.

Robin could feel the warmth radiating off him, the smell of beer, cigarettes and something else musky and intoxicating. She took a deep breath. She reached out, hands landing softly on his waist.

He pulled away from her touch. He couldn’t do this. He turned and began the walk to his room, using all his willpower not to look back at her. 

“Cormoran.” Her voice was angry and disappointed.

He turned around, avoiding her gaze and staring resolutely at the ground. He knew if he looked into her eyes, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from walking over to her and doing things he’d been pushing out of his brain for months -- for years.

“Cormoran.” Still angry, still disappointed. _At me. Fuck._

Unwillingly, his eyes travelled slowly up, the black heels, green jersey hugging all her curves, his jacket, draped gently around her shoulders, golden hair falling in curls, the curve of her collarbone peeking out from under the jacket lapels. Her chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm, black lace just visible under the plunging neckline. He shifted his gaze back to the floor, but not before his eyes flicked quickly to her face. Her gaze was stony; jaw set, eyes blazing, stubborn and frustrated. _Shit, she was even more beautiful when she was angry._

“Why won’t you look at me?” said Robin, anger still tingeing her voice.

Strike took a breath, about to reply, and then paused. He didn’t know what to say. What was the easiest course of action, a way to get out of this unscathed, friendship still intact? He had the sinking feeling they were past that point.

He brought his eyes up to to meet hers. How many times had he been in this position, being stared down by a furious Charlotte? Yet, this was so different; Charlotte’s anger had a vindictive, indulgent edge. She fed off it, she had to be in control, better to kill and break and maim then watch helplessly as their relationship fell apart.

Robin’s anger was headstrong, but it had an underlying hopefulness. Every time he’d seen her like this - yelling back at the slimy Geraint Winn, bickering with Matthew over the phone about divorce proceedings, arguing her case for saving Brockbank’s girlfriend’s kids - there was a sense of fighting for something she believed in, something that was, at heart, right and just. It struck a chord in Strike’s heart. She was angry because she wanted to fix something. But he still couldn’t bring himself to take the plunge. 

“Robin, I can't.”

“Why?” She crossed her arms, eyebrows creased, face disappointed and defiant, all at once. She wasn’t asking about his gaze not meeting hers, they both understood this was a larger question.

“Because I'll fuck this up?” Strike cocked his head to the side, staring longingly at her.

“That’s not an answer.”

Strike gritted his teeth. This was painful. Why was he fighting this so hard? Suddenly his reasons didn’t seem to make sense, but he said them anyway. “Because I’m afraid I’ll ruin our friendship. Our work. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Robin stared him down, eyes still blazing, arms crossed, hands clenched around the fabric of his suit jacket. “So you're just going to pretend that this isn't happening?”

Strike stood, silent. That was his general plan, but it didn’t seem to be working very well. 

Robin took two steps towards him. She knew how hard this was for Strike; the struggle was written all over his face. She wanted to provoke him, since she’d gone so far already. She was not a quitter, and she wasn't backing down tonight. Her voice was quiet now, and she stood barely a foot from him. “How’s that working out for you?” 

Strike’s face broke into a small, sheepish grin. “Not great,” he replied, quietly. 

“So?” Robin replied, eyebrows raised. 

He stared back at her, silent.

“Cormoran.” 

His eyebrows furrowed. He looked at the ground. “Please don't say my name.”

“Why?” Her eyes searched his face, looking for an answer. “Cormoran?”

He pulled his gaze off the floor to look into her eyes. “Because I can't think straight when you say my name like that, Robin.”

Her eyes widened slightly, hopefully. “Cormoran.”

She took a small step closer, her eyes looking up into his, and said it again, softer. “Cormoran.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and watched the tip of her tongue sliding along her lower lip, tasting his name. 

_Fuck my reasons_ , he wanted her now.

He stepped forward and gathered her in, one hand cupping the back of her head and the other at the small of her back, crushing her body into his. Their mouths met and he kissed her roughly, passionately, like he’d been wanting to for years. Robin let out an involuntary moan, her hands running along his back, all warmth and muscles, landing in his hair. Even in this crazed, all-consuming kiss, she couldn’t help wondering why his tight curls were so soft, not rough and bristly, like she’d always imagined they’d be.

Strike seemed to have forgotten that they were in a public hallway. Without taking his lips from hers, he took a step forward, and then another, pushing her up against the door. He ran his hands roughly down the side of her body, shoulders to arms, waist to hips, first pulling up the green jersey, then landing on the bare globes of her ass and lifting her up against the door. He shifted his weight into her, thrusting her up, her gaze level with his as their mouths finally broke apart. Legs wrapped around his waist, Robin’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated, lips parted and breath ragged. She could feel the length of him pressing up against her. This was fast. Her hands rested on his ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of his rapid breathing. She smiled, triumphantly. This was exactly what she wanted.

He laced a large hand through her hair, marvelling at how it could be even softer, even smoother than he imagined. He wound it around his fingers, closing his palm and gently tugging, pulling her head back and to the side, exposing her neck. Robin’s lips parted further and she let out a sigh. Strike lowered his head, kissing the spot behind her ear, travelling down her neck, tasting her skin and biting gently. His hand released her hair, travelling down, grazing her neck and collarbone, and landing on the smooth skin of her chest, exposed by the plunging neckline. He ran his thumb back and forth along the edge of the black lace, head still buried in the crook of her neck. Robin moaned in response, and urged on, he pulled down the fabric and lace, exposing her breast and running his thumb over her raised nipple. She thrust her hips into him, turning her head and catching his earlobe in her mouth. She bit down gently, then gasped into his ear, “Corm -- .” If he would only stop, maybe she could think straight, but she didn’t want him to stop. She put a hand on his chest, pausing him. “Cormoran. We should probably get out of the hallway.”

He looked drunk, elated, ravenous. He nodded like a puppy, and slid her gently down the wall. She turned to face the door, fixing her dress and fumbling in his jacket pocket, taking out her wallet and searching for the apartment key. Her hands seemed numb, her brain slow. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, his hands heavy on her waist. Finally finding the key, she slipped it in the lock and opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in two days! can you tell I'm on vacation? thanks for reading, this is so fun! 
> 
> oops, and I changed the rating to E, things are getting a little too racy.


	9. Chapter Nine

Turning back slightly, Robin looked at Strike’s face, gave him a reassuring smile, and slipped her hand in his, pulling him into the suite. As the door swung shut, she led him by the hand, through the small kitchen, into the bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room in a soft light. A car door slammed, a drunken conversation drifted up from the street below, through an open window. Robin dropped Strike’s hand and turned to face him. He looked nervous, his brow creased. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked. He had seemed so sure of himself a few moments ago, when his hands had been full of her, his mouth on her skin. But now that he was standing in front of her, all perfection and beauty, the gravity of the situation was sinking in. Like this was too good to be true. Like he was about step into something unknown. 

She looked back at him, trying to read his expression.  _ Was he asking because he was having second thoughts? Or did he just want to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage?  _ She wasn't sure, and she didn't really care. 

“Cormoran. I want this. I’ve -- wanted this for a long time.” 

A slow look of acceptance spread across his face; a smile. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” She smiled back.

“Okay,” he replied, softly. He stepped towards her, tentatively. The air shifted around them, and they looked into each other’s eyes, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Finally, Robin broke the silence, turning around, letting his suit jacket fall from her shoulders to the floor, looking back over her shoulder and keeping her blue-grey eyes fixed on his. 

“Unzip?” 

Strike slowly unzipped her dress, his large hand fumbling with the zipper, carefully drawing it down and exposing her back, a lacy black bra, and a hint of a matching thong. His hand paused on the skin of her lower back - it was so warm and soft under his fingertips. He moved his hand up, gently pushing the straps of the dress off her creamy, freckled shoulders. She felt the dress slide off her body and land in a heap around her heels. Strike’s eyes traveled up and down the length of her body. He reached up to her shoulder, guiding her back to face him. His gaze took her by surprise. She knew he’d had his share of women, many of them extraordinarily beautiful, but the look on his face at that moment was filling her with confidence, making her bold and courageous. He was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life, and it took her breath away. 

This time is was Robin who moved into him, pulling his head down and kissing him with a fervor she didn't recognize in herself. How had she never felt like this before? How had she spent a decade with Matthew and never been this turned on, so aroused she couldn't think straight?  _ Fuck Matthew _ . She pushed the thought aside as Strike’s hands ran down her body, along her bare ass, pulling her closer, grinding against her. Robin ran her tongue along his upper lip, feeling the ridge of his scar, then caught his lower lip in her teeth, biting down gently. Strike let out a low growl, and took a step backwards. The backs of his legs hit the bed, and he sat down heavily, pulling Robin down on top of him. 

Straddling his lap, she looked down at him and laughed. 

“What?” he asked with a confused smile. 

“Nothing - I'm,” she paused, looking at him with bright eyes. “I'm happy. This is perfect.” Her hands worked at the knot in his tie, and with a swish of silk, she pulled the tie loose, throwing it behind her. She set to work on the buttons on his shirt, biting her lip with concentration. He wanted to reach up and bite her lip too, her perfect, full bottom lip. His limbs were frozen, and he found he didn’t mind; just to sit there and have her on his lap, undressing him slowly was everything he wanted. It gave him a chance to study her, in a way he’d never been able to before.

Shirt off, Robin ran her hands over his body, marvelling at how hairy he was, how thick and muscular his chest and arms were. She reached back and slipped her heels off one at a time, and they landed with a thump on the floor. Kissing him again, she shifted her weight back, hands reaching for his belt under the slight overlap of his hairy stomach, starting to unbuckle it, but Strike’s hand covered hers and she paused. 

Strike broke away from her mouth. “Robin, I don't have any - I don't have a condom.” 

“Oh. I think I have some, in my makeup bag. Just give me a second.” She paused. “Do you want to take your leg off?” 

Strike nodded, looking up at her face. She’d asked it so matter-of -fact, like it was just another daily task. Which it was, to him, but it meant the world, and just when he didn't think he could fall in love with her any more, he did. 

He could hear her in the bathroom, rummaging through her bag, as he pulled off his trousers and bent down over the edge of the bed to remove his prosthesis. He leaned it against the bedside table, sitting back up and resting his hands on the duvet. He felt drunker than the few pints of beer he’d had, yet at the same time strangely alert and aware of his surroundings. Feeling his own heart thundering in his chest, he wondered if it was loud enough for Robin to hear. He hadn’t been this nervous with a woman since he lost his virginity. He’d been fifteen. It was like two decades of experience had taught him nothing. Suddenly he wished he’d had more to drink, to take the edge off.  _ No, you idiot. You’re going to want to remember every second of this. Calm down, you stupid fucker.  _

Robin appeared in front of him, breaking off Strike’s train of thought, and it was as if her momentary absence had rendered her even more beautiful than before. The long legs, pale skin shining in the moonlight, the gentle curve of her stomach and hips over the edge of the lacy underwear. His gaze travelled up to her face and she smiled shyly at him, stepping in between his legs. The bed was high enough that his head was level with her chest, and he reached around her, arms wrapping tight around her lower back. He pulled her in close, trapping her with his thighs. He rested his head on her chest, laying his cheek against her breast. His head fit perfectly under her chin, and Robin brought her hands up, playing with his curls. She could feel his heartbeat racing under his broad, hairy chest. Strike took a deep breath, lungs filling with her smell, and he could feel his nerves calming, now she was back in his arms, smooth skin warm against his.

Strike’s large hands began to explore her body, running over her back, down her hips, over her arse. Robin’s breath caught at the sensation; it was like he was leaving trails of light behind where his hands had been. Her grip tightened in his hair, and he responded by nuzzling into her chest, turning his head and kissing along the lace, where her full breasts were threatening to spill over the edges. His hands travelled up from their spot on her arse, filling each palm with a breast, tracing the edge of the black lace with a rough thumb. Robin’s head rolled back with a moan, and she reached behind herself to undo her bra, shrugging it off. Strike responded with a low growl, catching a nipple in his mouth and filling a hand with her breast, pinching her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Robin moaned again, grinding her hips into him, head dropping into his hair, nose nestling in his hair, nostrils filled with the smell and heat of him. 

Head still nestled against Robin’s chest, Strike’s hands left her breasts, sliding roughly down her body, catching on the lacy thong. He hooked his fingers around the edge of the lace, easing it down over her hips, and Robin lifted one foot, and then the other, leaving it on the floor next to the discarded bra. Holding her hips still with one hand, he brushed a palm over her golden curls, fingertips tracing around the edges of the soft hair, then running his hand down her thigh. He pressed gently, easing her legs apart, turning his face to look up at her. She looked down, eyes dark and pupils wide, lips parted. Strike raised an eyebrow, asking permission. She gave a small nod, fingernails digging into his shoulders in anticipation. His hand slid slowly up her thigh, palm turning upwards at the apex of her legs, cupping her sex, warm and wet in his hand. He slid a finger inside her, then a second. Robin let out a guttural moan, head rolling back, eyes closed. He slowly pulled his fingers out and up, rubbing circles over her clit, watching her face with fascination as he pleasured her. 

“Cormoran.” Her voice was husky and quiet. She rested a hand on his, stilling him. “I’m going to - I don’t want to yet - I want you.” 

She stared down at him; her face was filled with desire, pupils dark and breath quick. Strike pushed himself backwards on the bed, sliding himself along the covers and resting against the pillows, sitting upright. Robin followed, climbing up onto the bed, straddling him, up on her knees. Her fingertips ran under the waistband of his boxers, and he lifted his hips so she could pull them down. Eyes wide, she sat back on his thighs, one hand cupping his erection, running her fingertips gently over the head of his penis with the other, watching his face for his reaction with a gleam in her eye. Strike’s head dropped back on to the pillows and he groaned, eyes closed. 

“Robin, I’m not going to last if you do that.” 

She smiled cheekily, and reached over to the bedside table, where she’d left the condom. Ripping it open with her teeth, one hand still wrapped around his length, she rolled it over him, staring him down, expression daring and bold. She raised her hips above his, red-gold hair falling in his face, tickling his shoulders. He reached up, gathering it gently to the side in one hand, other hand resting on her hip, fingers digging into soft curves. Robin lowered her hips slowly, one hand guiding him inside her, the other resting on his chest, fingers raking into his dark chest hair. Her head dropped forward, forehead resting against his. She let out a deep breath, slowly sinking all the way down, feeling him filling her completely. Her hips met his, and she didn’t know where she ended and he began. 

Foreheads pressed together, Robin gazed into Strike’s eyes, and his breath caught; he was entirely overwhelmed by the feel of her around him, her thighs gripping him tight, her expression so vulnerable and honest. She smiled, breaking the moment, bringing her lips to his and lifting her hips. She began thrusting against him, a slow, steady rhythm. Strike groaned against her mouth, dragging his hand from her hip to her mound, circling a thumb around her clit. Robin kissed him harder in response, riding him faster, hands crushing his face to hers. As she got closer to climax, her face dropped down to his neck, biting down on his shoulder. She nudged into his ear with her nose, her voice a ragged whisper. “Cormoran, I’m - I’m coming.”

She moaned his name once more, and her hips stilled, eyes pressed shut and fingers digging into his chest. Her mind was completely blank as she rode the crest of her orgasm, full of fireworks and endorphins. Strike turned his head, burying his face in her hair. As she stilled, his hand drifted from her damp centre to dig into her hip, and he thrust up into her, once, twice, and then exploded inside of her, growling deep and long as he came, eyes pressed closed, head thrown back. 

They lay like that for awhile, Robin draped on top of him, not wanting to move. She could feel his breathing slowing with hers, their sweaty skin sticking to each other. His body was so warm and hairy against hers, so large and comforting. Strike’s face was buried in her neck, smelling her shampoo, her hair a curtain of soft gold covering his face. His hands ran up and down her back, tracing patterns that threatened to put her to sleep. Finally, with the breeze from the open window cooling the sweat on her body, Robin peeled herself off him, lifting herself up to lay next to him, curling up under the covers. Facing him, she pillowed her hands under her head, knees drawn up. Strike sat up, running a large hand through his disheveled curls, and turned away to take off the condom. He lifted the covers, and arranged himself facing her, head resting just inches from hers. 

They looked at each other, silent, eyes exploring. Strike’s gaze moved from her bruised lips to flushed cheeks, bright eyes to long eyelashes, tousled hair to creamy freckled skin. He found he couldn’t stop looking at her, now he finally had permission to stare. She stared back at him, not really believing what had just happened, enjoying the hazy effects of this afterglow. 

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” she said with a shy smile.

“C’mere.” The desire to hold her was even stronger, and he pulled her in, rolling onto his back, and she nestled into his armpit, resting her head on his chest. Strike turned his head, burying his nose in her hair, kissing the top of her head. Within minutes, he was asleep, breathing in her smell, arm wrapped protectively around her. 

Robin could hear his heartbeat slowing down, her hand resting on his chest, idly playing with his chest hair. Once his breathing evened out and deepened, and she was sure he was asleep, she slipped out of his arms and got up to go the bathroom. Strike rolled over, half-asleep, missing her warm body next to his. A few moments later, he felt her get back into bed and curl up next to him, tentatively, back nestled against his. He rolled over with a deep sigh, draping his arm around her, spooning her gently with his large frame, resting his hand on her hip. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was a strange, new feeling of being completely at ease, as if all the puzzle pieces in his life had finally fit together properly. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Strike opened his eyes slowly, gazing at an unfamiliar ceiling and feeling a warm body lying next to him. _Shit_. _Who had he slept with this time? What distraction in the form of which naked woman?_ Then it hit him; Robin. He’d actually slept with Robin. Memories of last night came back in a wave; flirting at the party, her warm body against his in the cab ride home, her burning gaze bullying him into kissing her in the hallway, which he was quite alright with; he was a little disappointed in himself that he needed that big of a nudge, but he’d quite enjoyed having her in charge. Sitting astride his lap, undressing him. Riding him, hands buried in his chest hair. _Did that really happen?_

Strike turned his head, just to be one-hundred percent sure his brain wasn’t playing some cruel trick on him. A halo of red-gold hair lay on the pillow next to him, gentle curves rose and fell under the blanket, a freckled shoulder peeked out from under the covers. He rubbed his face, and opened his eyes once more to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was still there. As the enormity of the situation finally hit him, he was overwhelmed by the need for a piss, a fag, and some fresh air, in that order.

Strike got out of bed quietly, strapping on his prosthesis, gathering his clothes and sneaking to the bathroom. He relieved himself, got dressed, and then leaned over the sink to splash water on his face. Looking in the mirror, his reflection gazed back at him, tousled hair and puffy eyes. _Me. She looked at me and decided, yes, this is the guy I want sleep with._ He shook his head in disbelief, squeezing some of Robin’s toothpaste on his finger and rubbing it around his mouth.

As he snuck out of the suite, he looked back at Robin, asleep on the bed. She'd rolled over, and her expression was heartbreaking; unguarded and youthful. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and never let go, and he wanted to run away as fast as possible before he fucked this up.

Outside, he lit up a cigarette as he searched for an open cafe. It was early, a Sunday, he realized, and most of the stores were still shuttered. After walking a few blocks, he finally found an open cafe, and bought himself two espressos and a few pastries in a bag for later. Sitting on the deserted patio, he knocked back the first shot, and lit up another cigarette. He felt like he needed to sober up; not from the beer he’d drunk, there had certainly been nights with more pints, but from Robin.

He’d had reservations about this trip; multiple days of close proximity with his partner, the atmosphere of the city, the unspoken freedom that travel brings. Things that happen in Paris, stay in Paris. Except that he didn’t want this to stay in Paris. Dragging a hand through his unruly hair, he sipped the second espresso. Details of last night kept sneaking into his brain, unbidden, and he could barely believe what he was seeing, except that he had been there, it had happened to him. Her tongue and teeth dragging along her perfect lower lip. The curve of her hip as she straddled him. The whisper of his name into his ear. Strike rubbed his face. The espresso wasn’t having any effect. He opened the paper bag and pulled out an apple pastry, stuffing half of it into his mouth.

The question now, he asked himself, was: did he have enough to bring to the table? Everything he wanted was laid out in front of him. She was back in bed, asleep, his sweat and scent all over her perfect, warm, sleeping body. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was, from that day she walked into his office and he almost killed her, to this, last night, this beautiful woman astride his lap, naked and smiling. He’d been so determined, ever since the day he met her, to not be reliant on her, not become overly-fond of this wonderful woman. He’d failed spectacularly.

His thoughts drifted to Charlotte, and he didn’t stop himself from thinking of her; instead he laid out the two women and compared his choices. Charlotte had always felt like a whirlpool that he was in danger of being sucked back into. Robin was… he sighed, eyes closed. Robin was like a lake, blue-grey eyes refreshing and calm, clear water where he could see right to the bottom, and he loved what he saw. He’d had a glimpse, in that calm water, of what life could be like, and he found he was no longer in danger of being sucked back into the whirlpool of the previous two decades.

 _I love her_. The words bumped around his overwhelmed brain, threatening to break free. He swore he’d never say those words again unless he really meant them; it would be a mockery of what he’d been through with Charlotte. Yet here he was. He knew how he felt about Robin and it scared the shit out of him.

Strike looked down at the table and realized how long he’d been gone. He was on his fourth fag, remaining espresso long forgotten, and had a sudden urge to see Robin again. He began the walk back to the rental, pastries in hand, with a determined stride. He’d made it through a shitty childhood. He’d had a successful army career. He’d lost a leg and he was still walking. He’d started his own business. He’d just need to be brave enough to take a chance on this. _I’d be crazy not to._

Back in Robin’s suite, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Robin stirred, propping herself up on her elbows. “Where'd you go?”

The look on her face was heartbreaking. Soft and sleepy, she had a vulnerable expression, like she’d laid all her cards on the table and she wasn’t sure if it was enough. She’d been so daring and bold last night, but it had all disappeared with the daylight, and here she was, in front of him, waiting for an answer. Strike took a big breath, ready to dive in.

“Breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the paper bag next to him. “Would you like me to make some tea?”

Robin nodded, but Strike didn’t move. He looked at her, not smiling, but with a soft, gentle expression on his face, rubbing his large hands up and down his thighs, letting out a deep sigh. 

Robin looked at him, searchingly, sitting further up in bed and hugging her knees. “So... regrets?” She looked nervous. 

Strike stared at her, taken aback. “Are you fucking kidding me? No.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Well, I really had to twist your arm last night.”

He gestured vaguely with his hands. “I'm an idiot?”

She looked unconvinced, eyebrows knit. 

“Robin, I'm serious, I have absolutely no regrets.” His face was sober now, he needed her to know he was telling the truth.

Her face softened slightly. “Then why’d it take you so long?”

He looked straight into her eyes. “Because you were engaged. And then you were married. And then you were in the middle of a divorce.”

Strike didn’t seem to notice how surprised she was by this revelation. He continued. “You deserved time.” He paused. “I didn't want this to be a one-time thing. It means more to me than that.” He paused again. “This means a lot to me.”

Robin blinked at him, taking it all in. He seemed to be waiting for a reply, for some kind of affirmative answer, so she leaned over and kissed him, tenderly, on the cheek. Then she leaned back and looked at him with a sheepish smile. “Can we just forget about this for the day?”

Strike’s brow furrowed, and he looked gravely back at her. “I don’t think that’s possible, Robin.” The images were seared into his retinas, and he only had to close his eyes to see them. It wasn’t something he was going to forget any time soon. Or ever. 

Robin shook her head. “I didn't mean it like that. I just mean... go back to being professional partners. Work together for the day. Figure this out tonight.”

Strike looked relieved. “Fine. In that case, would you like to go out with me? Tonight?”

Robin smiled. “You mean a date?”

Strike looked back at her, full of mock seriousness. “Yes. You, me, dinner and a bottle of wine. Romantic intentions, not a work thing.”

Her smile widened. “Okay… yes.”

His grin was huge. She’d never seen him look happier, as if Arsenal had won some sort of championship. “Just partners, until then.” He got up off the bed. “I'm going to jump in the shower, and then we’ll head out for our meeting with Van Gogh, okay?” He turned to go, then turned back and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry. I can't help myself.”

His smile was contagious, and Robin grinned back at him. “See you in a bit,” she replied. Strike practically skipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft slam. Then she heard the door open again, and saw his face peek around the doorway.

“I lied, last night. About your dress.”

“What?” Robin looked at him, confused.

“Your dress. You asked how you looked, and I said ‘good.’ That was a gross understatement. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You looked gorgeous. The most beautiful woman in Paris.” And with that, he turned and let himself out the door, slamming it behind him again, leaving Robin sitting on the bed naked, sheets pulled up to her armpits, grinning to herself like an idiot.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Robin readjusted her dress, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d changed her outfit twice, jammed her mascara wand in her eye while trying to apply her makeup, and had to sit down on the toilet seat and take some deep breaths to compose herself.  _ This is Cormoran. You know him. You’ve had dinner together hundreds of times.  _ She looked into her reflection again.  _ Not like this, though. This is different.  _

She’d finally settled on a white cocktail dress, dressy but not too dressy, heels, and a blazer, in case it got cold. A knock on the door, and she took another calming breath, grabbed her purse from the bed and headed out to meet Strike. 

He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.” He couldn’t believe he was allowed to say what had been going through his mind for ages. “What do you feel like? Pasta? Seafood? Moroccan? I looked up a few places nearby.” 

“Pasta sounds good.” She smiled nervously, and led the way down the hallway. 

Following her out of the building, Strike contemplated her red-gold hair and bare shoulders, wondering how to break the ice. Things had been pretty normal today; they’d adopted a professional air that was slightly stand-offish. He’d tried to compartmentalize the events of the previous evening, but had found it impossible. She’d passed him a coffee, and the graze of her hand had recalled her hand on his bare chest. A glance up from her laptop and he was back in bed with her, naked, staring into her eyes. Now her body language seemed hesitant and embarrassed. 

Out on the sidewalk, the sun was low in the sky, long shadows falling on the sidewalk. He turned to her, concerned look on his face. “Robin, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She didn’t look fine. She hesitated. “I just haven’t been on a first date in a very long time.” 

Strike looked at her gently. “Well, this isn’t really a first date. We’ve known each other for a long time --”

Robin shook her head and cut him off. “But it is. This is different. It feels different.”

“Just think of it like dinner the other night. Or that picnic we had. Or any night at the Tottenham. Except I might try and hold your hand. Or kiss you goodnight. Or if things go really well, ask you back to my hotel room.” He raised an eyebrow, cheekily. 

She blushed, smiling, and looked at the ground. 

He took her hand in his, moving closer. “I tried my best to be professional all day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And last night.”

Robin laughed, pink-faced. “Let’s take things one step at a time, and go get dinner first.” She turned to start walking, then second guessed herself, and stopped mid-stride, in the middle of the sidewalk. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. Last night.” She looked up at him, a sparkle in her eye, biting her lip.

He let out a surprised laugh. “Alright, Ellacott, keep your pants on. You’re the one who said we have to get dinner first.” He winked at her. 

She couldn’t stop smiling, and she gave his hand a squeeze as they walked down the street. Ice broken, the unspoken awkwardness of the day dissipated, they headed to the restaurant, hand in hand. 

Earlier that day, they’d wrapped up their job with Van Gogh; tonight would be their last night in Paris. Strike had let Robin take the lead in the final meeting. She’d laid out everything they’d found, and suggested that their client take the information back to the police. All signs were pointing to an international crime syndicate, and it was definitely out of their league as private detectives. They’d left their final meeting with the client feeling happy with their work, themselves all the happier because of the sizeable bonus he’d given them for the thorough job they’d done.

Dinner went well, pasta and wine and conversation. To a casual observer, they looked like any new couple; sneaking fond looks at each other when the other wasn’t looking, a slight air of nerves hovering around the table, their affection for each other new and sparkly and electric. They chatted a little about work, and a little more than usual about personal things; Strike was full of embarrassing anecdotes about Nick, Robin countering with a story of learning to drive a tractor better and faster than her brothers. Everything seemed the same - any night at the Tottenham, any nighttime stake-out; and yet everything was different. Strike found himself able to lean in closer, stare a little longer at Robin’s flushed cheeks. Robin couldn’t tear her gaze away from his crinkled eyes, his strong forearms when he rolled up his sleeves after dinner. His hand lingered on her lower back, when he opened the door for her as they left the restaurant. 

“Dessert?” Robin turned to glance at Strike as they walked along the sidewalk, slowly making their way back to their rental. 

“What’d you have in mind?” His mind was already wandering back to their rental, back to the place where he could be in bed with her, naked and -- 

“Wait here.” Robin ducked into a small convenience store, and emerged a minute later with a paper bag. “I want to finish my vacation here like a real Parisian. Let’s go find somewhere to sit by the river.” She smiled at Strike, and took his hand. In honesty, she needed some liquid courage to talk about some of the nagging feelings that were the reason for her nerves. They meandered over to the Seine, and found a bench overlooking the dark river. Robin slipped off her shoes, and tucked her feet under her on the bench. Strike sat down with a satisfied sign, and watched as Robin pulled out a bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate. She twisted off the lid, raised the bottle with a grin and took a sip, then passed it to Strike. He looked at the bottle, eyebrow raised. 

“That just cost me four euros, you better at least have a token swig,” Robin said with a straight face, breaking the bar of chocolate in half. 

Strike grinned at her and took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaching for the chocolate. In front of them, Paris was lit up like a scene from a movie. A barge floated quietly down the river, and conversations floated over the warm night air from nearby couples and groups, drinking and enjoying the late summer night. 

Robin leaned into Strike, her thigh pressing against his, then reached out, gently squeezing his leg. She looked up at him, eyes wide, expression calm. “I had a really lovely evening with you. And I just thought -- maybe we should talk about some stuff, before we head back home.” Her eyes searched his face. 

Strike took a deep breath. He’d enjoyed the evening immensely, in fact, he couldn’t remember a more enjoyable date. However, he promised himself he’d do this right, and that meant being honest with each other and asking difficult questions. She was giving him an open invitation. “You asked me this morning why it took me so long.” He paused, looking into to river. He continued, gently. “Can I ask you the same question?” 

Robin sighed. She took her weight off him, sitting up straight and brushing her hair behind her shoulder. “I think I had a lot of the same reasons you did. I really value our friendship, and this job means everything to me. I didn’t want to jeopardize that. And, well, we were friends first and it’s a big leap to take that step from friends to something more.” The wine was making her chatty, and the date had gone so well, she found herself back to that comfortable back-and-forth she loved about being with him. “You’re hard to read, I honestly couldn’t tell if you had feelings for me.” 

Strike was silent, and Robin wondered if she’d said the wrong thing, been too honest. Finally, he broke the silence. “I’ve had feelings for you since I met you. They only got worse once I got to know you better.” 

Robin gazed down into the river, flowing lazily past them, dark and murky. He was being so honest, it was unnerving. She glanced sideways at Strike. He was staring at her, his dark eyes searching her face. A loud conversation drifted over the river from a patio, a car honked behind them. 

Robin took a long sip of wine. “Did you keep me on because you had feelings for me? After the Landry case?” She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know, but she needed to ask. 

He took awhile to answer. “No. I don’t want you to think that — you’re incredibly talented. I think I kept you on… despite being attracted to you? Does that make sense?” 

“No.”

He tried to explain. “I didn’t want the way I felt about you affect our work. And I didn’t think anything would ever happen. You were engaged.” He paused again, looking into the river. “I don’t think I can really separate my feelings about you and my reasons for asking you to stay and work with me. But no matter how I feel, you’re a very talented detective. You deserve this job because of your skill and intelligence, not because of your appearance or how I feel about you. You — you question our work. And the ethics behind it. And you empathize with people in a way I don’t.”

Robin felt relieved. Strike was staring into the river, thoughtful. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “I'm just worried about making this work, with our job. Working together.” 

“So am I. Just professional partners during work hours?” He took the bottle of wine from her hands and finished it off. 

“Okay. And promise you’ll treat me as a colleague? Not talk me out of dangerous assignments or get protective?” Strike set down the empty bottle and stuck out a hand.

“I will try my best, and you are free to call me out when I’m being an ass.”

Robin took his hand and shook it. His grip was firm, his large hand overtaking hers. “Okay. And out of work…” Robin trailed off. This was the part she was most nervous about. “Are we — dating? Seeing just each other?” Her hand dropped, but Strike held onto it. 

“Robin, are you kidding me? Of course I’m not seeing anyone else. I haven't been with anyone since Lorelei.” _And that was just a distraction, something to get me through watching you being married to him._ _That twat_. He was trying hard not to talk about how he felt about Matthew. It didn’t matter now, and it was never enjoyable to hear about how shit your ex was. He knew that from experience. 

“Okay.” Robin smiled shyly at him. He was still holding fast to her hand. 

“So, how was your first first-date in a decade?” He lifted an eyebrow, turning her hand palm-down and bringing it up to his lips, kissing it softly. 

“Hmm. Pretty good. I’d give it at 9 out of 10,” she said with a straight face. 

“What’d he lose a point for?” 

She turned back to the river, pulling her hand out of his grip. “Too much talking. I’m still waiting on the part where he asks me back to his hotel room.” She stared resolutely ahead, finally lighthearted and bold, now they’d got all the difficult conversations off the table. 

Strike leaned over, turning her face to his with gentle but firm hand, and kissed her, long and slow, tongue tracing her lips, exploring her mouth. Robin sighed and sank into it, one hand finding his curls, the other against his warm chest, fingers pulling him closer. He pulled back after a long minute, looking into her eyes. “Can I take you back to my room and improve my rating?” 

“You can try.” She smiled impishly at him, getting up off the bench and holding out her hand. 

Strike and Robin walked back to the rental, like so many other couples in the warm summer Paris night, hand in hand, a little love-drunk, and a little real drunk, both happier and more content than they’d been in a long time.


	12. Chapter Twelve

“Robin.” 

“Mmm.” 

“Can I ask you something? I should have asked you sooner, or yesterday, but…” He trailed off. Strike’s voice was soft and low, fingers running absentmindedly up and down Robin’s thigh, where her leg peeked out from under the tangled sheets. She was lying on her back, he was facing her, propped up on an elbow; they were slowly coming down from the high of their second time together. They’d been all over each other in the hallway, tumbling into Strike’s room, in such a rush that they’d barely managed to get their clothes off before falling into bed. Now, after, Robin was so relaxed and comfortable, and she still couldn’t really believe that she was naked, in bed, with Cormoran. And that it felt so normal. 

She turned her head to him and blinked, long eyelashes brushing her flushed cheeks. “What?”

Strike looked hesitant. “I just want to make sure... I’m not being too forward. With you.” He paused. “In bed.” His eyes asked the question that he wasn’t really sure how to put into words, and Robin understood. She rolled to her side, facing him, resting her hand carefully on his chest, running her fingers through his thick chest hair, tracing invisible patterns across his heart. 

As she thought about how to answer, she was torn between frustration at this being her reality and being touched that he was thinking about her feelings. She’d known she would have to face this, after Matthew; being intimate with a new person, telling them about her past. It was a relief that it was Strike; he already knew about the rape, and he’d hinted at his own trauma, casually mentioning the panic attacks he’d faced in cars. And she’d had a panic attack of her own in front of him. He hadn’t overreacted or coddled her. 

Robin sighed, hand pausing, looking straight into Strike’s eyes. “You don’t have to treat me like… like I’m broken, or fragile or something —“ Strike started to speak but Robin cut him off. “I’m not saying you do. You don’t. Treat me like that.” She lifted her hand off his chest and brushed a stray curl off his forehead. “You’re not being too forward. I’ll tell you if you are. I — ” She paused, blushing. This was really difficult to talk about. She wasn’t used to being this straightforward about sex. With Matt they had just danced around it, with prudish conversation and euphemisms. This was extraordinarily uncomfortable but refreshing. She got it all out in a rush. 

“I like when you ask my permission. To do things. And check if what’s happening feels okay. I trust you. I know if I ask you to stop, you will. That makes it better.”

Strike reached out and ran his fingers over her hair, tousled and tangled from what had gone on before. “Is there anything I might do that would make you uncomfortable?”

“It’s got less to do with sex and more just daily life. Like people coming up behind me, or scaring me. That’s a big trigger. It’s worse if I’m stressed or upset. It was really bad right before Matthew and I split up. I used to sneak into the bathroom to have panic attacks, because he’d blame it on the job and I didn’t want to fight with him. But it wasn’t that, it was the hiding it from him that made them worse. But I’ve been doing really well these past few months. I even started going to therapy again.” She smiled weakly at him. 

Strike ran his thumb over Robin’s cheek, then down to her mouth, tracing her swollen lower lip slowly with a light touch. He leaned in and kissed her, feather-light, bristly beard brushing her chin. He settled back on the pillow and they stared at each other. 

Robin’s brows creased. “What about you? You said you used to have panic attacks when you were in cars…” She trailed off, not really sure what she was asking. 

Strike frowned. “Haven’t had one of those in a while. It helps that you’re such a good driver.” He cocked an eyebrow at her, then continued quietly. “It happens when I sleep. Nightmares. Especially if I’m upset about something. It’s like being trapped in a dream I can’t wake up from. I broke someone’s nose once. In my sleep. They tried to wake me up — just don’t try and wake me up. If it ever happens.” 

“I have those too. Nightmares.” 

They stared at each other for a long time, taking in each other’s confessions. 

Finally, Robin reached over, smoothing the creases on Strike’s forehead with her fingertips, brushing her hand down the side of his face to cup his cheek with her palm. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“How about something that doesn’t involve talking at all?” He smiled roguishly at her, pulling her closer and rolling her gently on her back. He pushed the tangled sheets away from her body, trailing slow kisses down her warm skin, staring at her collarbone. By the time her got to her stomach, Robin was sighing with pleasure, hands tangled in his hair, legs rubbing together unconsciously. He trailed his mouth down the edge of her hip, shifting his body further down the bed. One hand resting gently on her thigh, the other pushing himself up off the mattress, he leaned over her, kissed the inside of her thigh, and looked up at her. “This okay?” 

She looked down at his tousled hair, his eyes full of mischief and desire. She rubbed a hand through his curls. “More than okay.” 

Strike lifted her leg, shifting himself underneath it, running kisses slowly along her inner thighs, and making her shiver in anticipation. His hands reached under her legs, grazing her arse and landing on her hips, pulling her closer. Robin's hand found Strike’s, where it was gripping her hip, and she wound her fingers around his, squeezing tightly as his kisses got closer and closer. Her other hand found the back of his head, boldly pulling him in. He took it as an invitation. 

Her salty, copper taste and the way she couldn't stop saying his name was more than enough to make him hard again; Strike could feel his erection straining against the mattress. It didn’t take long for her to come again, hips lifting into his face, gasping his name, hand gripping his so tightly it hurt. He wiped his face off on the sheets, pushing himself back up the bed. Robin had rolled over onto her side, and he nestled into her back, languidly kissing her shoulders. 

“Do I get a ten out of ten yet?” His breath brushed against the back of her neck. 

Robin's voice was husky and low. “Don’t fish.” But she turned over her shoulder, and Strike pushed himself up so she could kiss him, awkward angle and all, and she beamed against his mouth. 

Robin broke away, pushing herself over to reach for her purse on the bedside, grabbing a condom and pushing herself back into Strike. She rolled over to reach for him, but he stopped her hand, taking the wrapper out of it. 

“Hey. It's okay, I'm not in a rush.” 

“Okay…” Robin laid back against the pillows, looking confused. 

Strike ran a hand through her red-gold hair, looking at her fondly. “We've got all night, and I want to make the most of the last evening of my almost-vacation.” He paused. “Trust me, it's not going anywhere.” He looked down at where his erection was nudging up against her hip, then back up at Robin with a twinkle in his eye. She rolled her eyes at him, and Strike pulled her face to his. He rolled her onto her side, and began to kiss her, slow and sensuous, tongue running over her lips, gently exploring her mouth. They lay like that for long minutes, kissing, hands feather-light, running over each other's bodies. 

Finally, Robin broke away, smiling mischievously at Strike as she rolled over, spooning into his large frame, grinding against his erection with her bare arse. His answering groan made her smile even more, and she reached her arms behind her head, pulling at his hair as she ground against him again. She felt him turn away, heard the crinkle of the condom wrapper, and felt him nudge against her, gentle but rock hard. She reached back and guided him inside her, groaning in unison with him this time, as he filled her, feeling even larger than last time from this new angle. 

“Fucking hell, Robin.” Strike’s hand found her hip, pulling her closer while he thrust into her, growling into her neck. As he found a slow, steady rhythm, his hand drifted up to her breasts, first caressing, then pinching and rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

Robin sighed in complete contentment. “Cormoran, you feel …” She stopped, at a loss for words. 

“Good?” He whispered into her ear. 

“Amazing,” she sighed back. 

His hand drifted down from her breasts, through her damp curls, finding her clit. Robin brought her hand down and covered his, stilling him. She turned her head back, looking shy. 

“You don't have to, I already…”

He looked at her from this awkward angle, gentle expression on his face. “I know you did,” he smiled, “I just thought you might like to … again?” He nuzzled forward into her hair, taking in a deep breath of her scent. 

“Oh.” Robin looked hesitant. “I've never —.” She paused. “I haven't done that before. In a row.” 

“Well. Would you like to?” He buried his nose further into her hair, and she could feel his breath against her neck. 

She smiled. “Um… yeah?” She turned further, looking back over her shoulder at him, smiling shyly. He kissed her, and then she turned back, nestling into him. 

“Would you show me?” He said into her ear, voice low and husky. His placed his hand on top of hers, gently, guiding her hand back down. Robin stroked herself, shyly at first, then bolder, as Strike’s thrusts increased in pace. His hand stayed on top of hers, learning what she liked, bringing her closer and closer. He couldn’t believe how much this was turning him on, feeling her touch herself. He buried his head in her neck, finding her ear, biting down gently on her earlobe. Her pace faltered, and he could tell she was close. He slowed, taking his hand away from hers, and grabbing onto her hip, holding her close against him. 

“Robin - ” His voice was a low growl in her ear. “You feel incredible.” He pulled her closer again, pushing himself even deeper. 

“Cormoran…” It escaped her lips before she even knew what she was saying. He was so deep inside of her, and she was right on the edge. 

“Robin, I'm - ” He groaned as she clenched her muscles around him. “Fuck, Robin.” He was dangerously close. “I’m going to come.” 

She moaned in response, grabbing his hair with her free hand and pulling his head into her neck. He grabbed her hip, fingers digging in so hard he worried for a moment that he might leave bruises, but then she was clenching around him and he was lost, hips slamming into her. Robin’s hand found her clit again, and she was over the edge in seconds, lost in her climax. Strike could feel her orgasm rippling through her, and it was more than enough to make him come, thrusting hard against her one last time, eyes clenched so tightly closed that he saw stars. 

After, Robin couldn’t say if it had been a minute or ten, she untangled herself from his arms. Strike sat up, groaning in complete satisfaction, pulling off the condom and fixing the pillows. He lay back with a deep sigh, and Robin turned over to nestle into his armpit, wrapping an arm around his broad chest. She didn’t mean to say anything, but the thoughts racing through her mind threatened to burst out. She looked up at Strike. His eyes were closed, but she knew he was still awake; his arm was wrapped around her and he was running his fingers up and down her spine. 

“Cormoran. Can I tell you something?” 

“Mmm.” His eyes stayed closed but he pulled her closer to him. 

She looked up at his peaceful, sleepy face, and continued, voice low and contented. “That was amazing. Like… the best sex I’ve ever had.” She couldn’t believe she was actually telling him this, but she forged on. “You make me feel… beautiful. I’ve never felt like that before, in bed. Three times. In one night.” She laughed, incredulous, eyes flashing. 

Strike’s eyes drifted open and he looked down at her. Even through her flushed skin and in the dark room, he could tell she was blushing. He had never known a woman to be so adorable and so sexy all at once. His eyes scanned her face, jumping from her contented gaze to her perfect lips. “That’s because you  _ are _ beautiful. Indescribably so.”

She stared back at him, and almost blurted out  _ I love you _ , but then she thought perhaps she should wait for a time when her hormones weren’t taking over her body, when her mind was clearer. She settled for a kiss and then nestled back into his chest, falling asleep almost immediately. 

Strike turned his head and buried his nose in her hair, her smell like a drug that was threatening to put him to sleep as well. He fought it, trying hard to stay awake, to make this moment last longer. He’s wasn’t afraid of it ending; his thoughts about returning to London were positive, he was ready to embark on this new, shiny adventure between him and Robin. But Paris had been so perfect, a bubble with no complications; no friends needing explanations, no relatives to be introduced, no work problems to navigate. But this was Robin. If anyone could make this work, it would be her. He’d just have to try really hard to hold up his end. And this feeling, of holding her in his arms; he’d do anything for that. On that thought, Strike fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I went to write the last chapter and it turned into two. I tried to put them on a plane back to London, but I just kept wondering about how Cormoran was going to improve his rating to a perfect ten out of ten.


	13. Chapter 13

The sun was setting over the endless stretch of clouds, but everyone on the plane was missing the spectacle, lost in their tablets and phones or fast asleep. Only Robin had her window screen open, mind lost in thought as she stared at the beautiful view. She turned her head to look at her partner. He was fast asleep, of course. He seemed to be able to sleep anywhere.

Robin looked down at her leg, where Strike’s large, hairy hand lay on her thigh. It was heavy, relaxed in sleep, a comforting weight, like one of those weighted blankets. Robin thought of Rowntree, who was afraid of thunderstorms. The only thing that comforted him during loud thunderclaps was a heavy blanket, which her mum wrapped around him, like an adorable dog babushka. Robin smiled to herself at this nonsensical connection. Last night, Strike’s weight wrapped around her, pressed against her, weighing down the mattress next to her; it had made her feel safer and more loved than she had felt in a very long time. 

That morning had been uneventful, but Robin ran through the small events carefully, where she had filed them away like souvenirs of the trip. A shared breakfast of coffee and croissants in bed, when she’d laughed as she brushed all the crumbs out of his stubble, his face scratchy and warm. A taxi ride through early morning Paris, windows down, summer breeze whipping her hair in her face; the way he’d reached across the seat for her hand, running his thumb back and forth over her palm. He’d left her to wait by their gate with the luggage, and disappeared for a while. She’d started to worry that he’d gotten lost, but he finally appeared with crisps and candies for the plane. After he sat down next to her, he’d reached over, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, almost absentmindedly.

Robin looked over at Strike again. _He really can sleep anywhere._ Her eyes lingered on his lips, and she felt a warmth spread across her chest at the thought of those lips trailing kisses down her body. She was more than a little embarrassed by what she’d blurted out last night, but it had been true. It was the best sex she’d ever had -- mind-blowing, can’t stop thinking about it, didn’t know it could be that good kind of sex. Her face flushed, just thinking about it. She was both surprised and not surprised; was it like that with most men, she wondered, certain aspects of their character mirrored in their demeanor in bed? He was incredibly loyal, never missed a detail or forgot a conversation, and was so generous to those few people that were close to him. All those qualities had been on display in a way she had never seen with Matthew; or maybe she just hadn’t been paying attention. It didn’t matter now. She began to admonish herself for this constant comparison to her ex-husband, but another voice in her head piped up: _stop feeling guilty, of course you’re comparing them, you’ve only ever slept with two men._ This sudden shift of her world, a rearranging of things she thought she knew was throwing her off kilter, albeit in a delicious, distracting way.

Robin set her hand gently on Strike’s, running her thumb back and forth across his hairy knuckles. Strike slept on, oblivious, his stomach relaxed over his belt, slowly rising and falling. She had so many questions running through her mind: would working together be weird, would they have to explain this change in their relationship to everyone they knew, would she be able to keep her newfound independence or would she slowly slip back into her acquiescent, submissive habits she’d been so stuck in with Matt. _Fuck it_. _You can do this_. This was Strike. He was her best friend, they’d give it a shot and figure it out as they went. These last few days, no, these past few years, had been eye-opening, life changing, heart-stopping. Now she could have all that _and_ a partner outside of work? Someone who understood her, someone who was funny, intelligent, and amazing in bed? It was almost too good to be true.

Robin looked at this sleeping, gentle giant and smiled, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes. She felt like she’d been given a second chance in life twice over; first, that day she’d walked into his office and discovered her dream job, and second, when she’d woken up in bed next to him and found out that he felt the same way, that he’d fallen for her as hard as she'd fallen for him. Robin fell into a peaceful nap, and Strike slept on, oblivious to her many revelations. 


	14. Epilogue

Robin was early, as usual. She set her purse down on her chair, tossing the stack of mail she'd grabbed from the box downstairs on the desk. Hanging up her coat, she turned around and surveyed the office. She'd missed it; the familiar couch, her tidy desk, the way the morning sun slanted in and gently lit up the room. She heard heavy footfalls overhead, and smiled at the thought of seeing Cormoran’s surly face in a few minutes.

They'd returned from Paris on Saturday night. He had kissed her goodnight when their taxi had stopped at her apartment, the rain falling softly on the dark windows. They hadn’t managed to bring the beautiful sunny weather back to London. Sunday had been full of errands and laundry. He'd texted her a few times, but mostly work stuff regarding the coming week. She was fine with a little distance, a break; she'd been apprehensive about her losing her independence, but she told herself should have known that Strike liked to be alone as well, and they’d be fine at respecting each other's boundaries.

The week had passed in a bit of a blur; between catching up on their caseload and social engagements, they’d barely seen each other. Robin had gone out for drinks with Vanessa on Monday, then her Mum had been in London so they’d had dinner together on Tuesday. She and Strike had planned on seeing each other Wednesday night, but then Shanker had called with a top secret emergency, and Strike had regretfully cancelled on their dinner date. Thursday, Strike had been out late on the job, following Redhead II, and now it was finally Friday and the promise of seeing each other in more than passing was waiting as a reward. 

Robin turned on the kettle, and returned to her desk to wait for the water to boil. Absentmindedly rifling through the post, she threw away some junk adverts, when her eye was caught by a Paris postmark, and a stamp with a tiny, red-breasted bird. Kettle forgotten, she settled back in her chair and began to read the untidy, cramped writing on the postcard, a grin slowly spreading across her face. 

_Robin,_

_I had a wonderful time with you this past week - it was the most enjoyable vacation I've been on in years, and it wasn't even a real vacation. Lest you think I only read Latin poetry, this trip brought to mind Hemingway’s thoughts on travel - “never go on a trip with anyone you do not love” - so thank you, for being the perfect travel partner, and for making the first move. I've always known you were the braver of the two of us. I know I can be a grumpy, uncommunicative bastard, but just know I'll try my hardest to fight it. And next time I’ll send you a real love letter - a postcard is too small for all my thoughts. I can't wait to see what the next few months have in store and I look forward to it all - the challenges, the successes, and most of all, falling asleep with you in my arms. Here's one more thought from my friend Ernest: “Wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast.”_

_x Cormoran_

A flush slowly spread across Robin’s face. No one had ever sent her a love letter before. And this - it was definitely Cormoran’s style, she’d seen the bursts of his hidden knowledge of literature, migratory patterns of birds, obscure garden plants - this was more romance than she’d had in her life for a very long time, if ever. It was reminiscent of drunk Cormoran, those few times she’d seen him let his guard down, fueled by alcohol. Drunk Cormoran was effusive, and this was that, but eloquent and well written as well. She couldn’t help but notice he’d used the word _love_. Not once, but twice. Not quite an I love you, but pretty damn close.

Robin got up in a daze and returned to the kettle, waiting for it to boil again and making two mugs of tea, one the perfect shade of creosote. She returned to the desk, a foolish grin on her face, set the tea down, and picked up the postcard to read it through a second time. The sun was stronger now, warmly shining on her back, creating a halo of golden hair around her face.

She’d been worried that she was taking things too fast, rushing in head first, unable to get him out of her mind, but he seemed to be rushing in too --

“Morning.” Her thoughts were cut short, and she looked up from the postcard. Strike was wearing a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Robin was struck by how attractive she found him; that this was the same man that had almost knocked her down the stairs a few years ago, that she’d once thought of him as bear-like and disheveled. She saw his eyes flick to her hands, where she was still holding the postcard. He looked back up at her eyes, a slight raise of his eyebrow and a hopeful look in his eyes. Robin returned it with a goofy, uncontrollable smile.

“When did you have time to send this?”

He shrugged. “There was a post office in the airport. When I went to buy snacks.”

Robin was incredulous. “You wrote this off the top of your head? In the airport?”

“What, you’re doubting my correspondence skills?” 

“No -- it’s beautiful, I just can’t believe you wrote this so fast. In the airport.”

Strike tried to keep his amusement in check, walking over to the desk and picking up his mug of tea. He looked fondly at her. “Well, I googled the Hemingway quotes. I mean, I remembered the sentiment, just not the specific words. My memory isn’t _that_ good. But I’m much more literary than I come across.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like…” Robin flushed.

Strike leaned awkwardly across the desk and kissed her on the mouth. “I'm only teasing you,” he murmured into her ear, hand buried in her red-gold hair. He pulled back suddenly. “Sorry, office hours.”

Robin set her tea down, getting up from her chair and coming around to stand next to him. Slowly and deliberately, she placed her hands on his chest, grabbing gently onto the soft cotton and pulling his bulk into her. She landed a kiss on his cheek and looked into his eyes. “It's okay, we did so well all week. And I feel like I've barely seen you,” she replied softly. 

“I know. Tottenham? After work? You, me, a few pints and some white wine? Oh, and chips, or else you'll be properly drunk in no time.”

She beamed. “That would be perfect.” She pulled him back in for another kiss, circling her arms around his waist, lips meeting his, tongues dancing against each other. Finally, she pulled back reluctantly, and rubbed her nose against his scratchy cheek. “Let's go back. To Paris.”

“We don't need to.”

“What?”

Strike put his hands gently on her waist, pulling back so he could look straight into her eyes. “But you've missed the whole point. Anywhere can be Paris. It stays with you; it's a movable feast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Thank you so much for reading, this has been such a fun experience. I'm still kicking myself for taking so long to get into the world of fanfic. This has definitely only whet my appetite (all the puns intended with the title theme), so I'll be back with more, maybe even a follow-up series!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. I dabbled in early 2000’s era HP fic, but only as a reader, and I haven’t been back since. It’s funny that it’s JKR bringing me back. Thanks to all the other writers for inspiration, especially elizahiggs, peregrinning, and especially supervi for my favourite Robin/Strike date at the theatre - I thought it was perfect and I shamelessly borrowed it from you. Also thanks to the reddit poster who send me to this site, where I proceeded to read all 350 fics from this universe in a row.


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